


Every Broken Man

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [5]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (last two tags are for chapter two), Bisexual Percival Graves, Blood and Injury, Deaf Character, Deaf Percival Graves, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, hard of hearing character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-03-22 19:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: Quite unexpectedly, something small and sharp bounces off the back of his head. Percival whirls around, hackles instantly raised, and searches out the source. He finds it half-shadowed in the alley he just passed: a glowering boy with unkempt hair and scars that whorl and warp the right side of his neck up to his ear. Percival recognizes Credence immediately and clearly Credence recognizes him as well—except not quite.- - -Credence is finally found, safe but not unharmed. Newt and the Goldsteins focus on helping him recover while Percival focuses on tracking down a certain ex-Auror.**EDIT 2/28: Chapter One has been extended!**





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Mars by Sleeping At Last:
> 
> There is goodness in the heart  
> Of every broken man  
> Who comes right up to the edge  
> Of losing everything he has

Summer crawls to a close. The muggy heat that gathered and multiplied between the metal walls of the buildings has at last dissipated and left behind a refreshing crispness. The time has come for light jackets and long sleeves and, sooner than you may think, rain coats. In the wake of the heat’s departure, Percival removes his cool weather clothes from the shrunken box on the top shelf in his wardrobe and begins to spell them back to their intended size. For every two of his own jackets and coats, he finds one of Newt’s, which makes him smile like a lovesick fool.

Then he comes across the long black coat that was once a staple in his every-day wardrobe and he freezes. The coat was returned to him in late January, when he was still seeing his therapist every day, fighting to reclaim his self, and when his belongings that Grindelwald wore when captured were finally released from evidence. Upon receiving the items, Percival shoved the coat to the back of his closet to be dealt with later and immediately disposed of the rest.

Well, Percival thinks resignedly, the time to deal with it seems to be now. He sighs. This was his favorite coat, had been for years, which is why he hesitated to dispose of it. It is entirely nondescript; plain and dark, but fitted and comfortable. He likes the way it settles around his frame and the flash of white from the lining when he moves. Looking at the coat now, it is immaculate; just the way he left it over a year ago. It carries no noticeable smell and there are no rips in the lining or tears at the seams and yet… The coat is undeniably marred. Ruined.

Daphne wriggles in his breast pocket and pokes at his pulse point with her beak. Percival startles slightly and then sucks in a deep breath, shutting his eyes and willing himself to calm. When his heartrate slows and Daphne is carefully curled like a living collar around his neck, Percival opens his eyes. Then he tosses the coat aside and directs it to fold itself neatly before it settles on a chair. He’ll find some shelter or other to donate it to once he’s certain there are no lingering traces of magic on it.

But for now… Percival finishes putting away the cold-weather clothes and then, with a downward twist to his mouth, removes a light jacket and shrugs into it. Daphne nuzzles the underside of his jaw insistently and doesn’t stop until Percival takes a moment to scratch under her chin and tickle her feet. The pause, however brief, does wonders for easing the tension in his shoulders and Percival feels a renewed appreciation for his occamy companion. (In all honesty, his appreciation for her grows exponentially every day, to the point where he really ought to give Tina some kind of bonus or promotion or both for bringing the occamy into his life in the first place.)

“Thank you,” he murmurs to his little companion and Daphne’s eyes slide happily half-shut.

In the kitchen, Newt and Tina are shoulder-to-shoulder at the table, poring over a magical map of the city while they nibble on pastries from Kowalski’s. There’s an occamy Danish with blackberry jam on a plate by Newt’s tea, paired with a mug of fresh black coffee and clearly set aside for Percival.

Percival slides into a chair—which Newt and Tina seem to have forgotten the existence of—and tucks into his modest Sunday brunch, watching his lover and his friend discuss points on the map. Rather than watch their mouths to catch the vein of the conversation, Percival watches their hands and the glowing marks they create along the drawn lines of streets and avenues. They are mapping out all the places they have searched and all the places they plan to search, hoping to find a frightened young man before it is too late.

 

\- - -

 

The Magical Congress of the United States of America is buzzing with activity when Percival arrives the following morning; Daphne is a manageable three-foot scarf wrapped about his shoulders and his head is held high. The Investigations floor is particularly hive-like when Percival steps off the lift and enters the bull pen. The bulletin board is cluttered with moving photographs, samples of evidence, lists of names and locations, multi-colored pins glowing on the silvery map of the city.

The lull in magical criminal activity that gripped New York City in the wake of Grindelwald’s arrest has ended. In the last month alone there have been five raids on known black market dealers, three magically tampered with no-maj items confiscated, and one attempted robbery through use of a bowtruckle (who now resides in Newt’s case with the rest of the branch there). Percival’s department is swamped; the Juniors have been forcibly booted from their leisurely orientation and shoved into the hard, fast-paced reality of being an Auror. Aside from a couple of minor stumbles by Kinney and Lesatz, they have done remarkably well and Percival is quite proud of them.

This morning, however, Percival does not have time to swing through the Investigations floor to check on their progress. He is due in Seraphina’s office first thing for a status report.

The Madam President is waiting in her top floor office, behind her expansive oak desk and before the immense moving painting of MACUSA’s first president, Josiah Jackson. The late-President Jackson watches Percival enter down the length of his nose with a stern yet approving expression. Jackson’s first order of business upon taking on the presidential mantle was to recruit more Aurors and the animated painting has always found Mr. Graves to be a fine example of such.

President Picquery rises from her wingback chair to greet him. She looks noble and impressive in a long wrap skirt and matching blazer over a crisp white blouse and a tastefully jeweled headdress. Her nails are painted a muted gold that matches the subtle brush of makeup across her eyelids. She smiles faintly with red-brown lips when he approaches the desk and gestures with an elegant to the waiting visitor’s chair.

“Director Graves,” she greets him coolly, hands fluttering automatically to form the signs that make up his title and surname. After being struck by a no-maj vehicle and, once recovered, begging the question of just what he was doing so close to a heavily non-magical corner of the city, Percival confided in Seraphina about taking lessons in American Sign Language. Seraphina responded as any friend would and began learning the language as well.

“Madam President,” he responds in kind and waits for her to be seated before seating himself. Pleasantries done, Percival jumps right into his report. “Auror Goldstein has picked up another lead on the possible location of the Obscurial Credence Barebone and, with the assistance of Mr. Scamander, will be following up on it right away. Should this lead prove fruitful, we hope to have Barebone in safe custody by tonight.”

There is no precedent for a child with an Obscurus surviving past the age of ten and yet young Credence, as best they can tell, is around twenty-three years of age. Further, there is no precedence for an Obscurial to survive its destruction and reform into human shape. Percival is operating purely on instinct and instinct tells him to let Tina and Newt handle this situation alone. According to reports, Tina has a good relationship with the boy and he will listen to her and be calmed by her presence. And Newt, well, Newt is _Newt_. Percival trusts him implicitly.

“Very good,” Picquery says. “I presume I cannot convince you to bring him here, to the healing ward, should he be found?”

“You presume correctly,” Percival replies. Seraphina had been hard-pressed to made this concession, but even she cannot deny the facts. Credence needs to be kept calm, needs to feel safe, and only the Goldsteins can do that for him. Should he be found, Credence Barebone will be placed into the custody of Tina and cared for as she sees fit.

Picquery sighs, but does not seem at all put out. “Very well,” she says. “Does Auror Goldstein and her sister have any plan for how to deal with the boy?”

“Plans vary depending on the state we find him in,” Percival answers plainly. “I have, however, reached out to my own therapist and asked if she would be willing to speak to him.”

Mathilda Merry, who Percival still meets with once a month, was delighted to hear from Percival outside their usual appointment and cleared time on her calendar right away for Credence. When Percival stressed that Tina and Newt _might not_ find him or that the boy _might not_ be willing to speak to anyone who is not Tina or Newt, Mathilda pertly replied that in that case, her open hours would be for Tina and Newt should they desire her assistance or advice.

Picquery nods approvingly. “Smart thinking, Mr. Graves.” Her presidential mantel slips for a minute and Percival’s dear friend Seraphina smiles proudly at him. “Carry on, then.”

“Yes, Madam President,” he says with a slight smirk and rises from his chair. He is not even halfway to the door, when Daphne taps him for Seraphina’s attention.

“Tell your Mr. Scamander the bill to make thunderbirds a protected species has passed.”

A smile spreads unbidden across Percival’s face. “I will, Madam President. Thank you.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival arrives home that night before Newt and Tina return from whatever corner of the city they are investigating today. He stayed nearly an hour and half overtime, sorting through documents and inquiries and requisitions—the usual exhaustive scut that apparently only the Director can do—and is now bone-tired. Daphne slides off his shoulders and tumbles gracelessly to the floor as soon as he closes the door. Percival watches her half-flutter, half-scramble into the living room where the bottom drawer of the bureau sits open, always, to grant access to the occamy nest within.

He pulls the drawer open and does a bit of maintenance—clearing out stray feathers and what looks to be the picked-clean bones of alley rats. With their new location and new access to the outside world, the nest’s occupants have become quite savvy. They hunt discreetly and gleefully and at any given hour of the night, one or two will often be heard fluttering in through the window with a meal in its claws. Lovesick fool that he is, Percival has taken meticulous notes on their comings and goings, on their obvious intelligence and adaptability, knowing that Newt will be thrilled to have the information.

Vaguely, in the way one does when their mind is otherwise occupied, Percival wonders if these occamys could be trained similarly to Daphne. They clearly have the capacity for it, what with their demonstrated adaptability. The thought slides away as easily as it came and Percival carries on to the bedroom to get ready for bed.

Once beneath the sheets, Percival falls asleep almost immediately and is slipping into a hazy, silent dream when he is jostled awake by Newt’s return. The magizoologist is clearly trying his best to be gentle as he crawls under the blankets, but years as an Auror have made Percival easy to wake. He rolls over onto his side to face Newt as the redhead settles in and smiles lazily at his love. Newt meets his eye and scrunches his nose in a sheepish expression; he makes a fist and rubs his chest in a circular motion. _Sorry_.

“It’s alright, darling,” Percival murmurs. “Any luck?”

Newt taps his first two fingers twice on his thumb. _No._ Newt’s expression is near heartbroken and all Percival can do is tug him to his chest and hold him until they both drift to sleep.

 

\- - -

 

In the end, Credence finds them. More specifically, Credence finds Percival. On a whim and a faint wish to feel the fresh air, Percival decides to walk home rather than Apparate from work. He strolls with Daphne secure in his pocket and his silver wampus cane in hand and enjoys the sights and smells of his city. The coming autumn has set a chill in the air and a grayness in the sky that spells imminent rain. Percival can very nearly feel the prickle of moisture on his skin, the forewarning feeling of a rainstorm building in the cloud above.

Without Daphne at his immediate disposal, Percival keeps a sharper eye on his surroundings. He stays firmly on the sidewalk, never straying past the curb to cut corners at crossings and always mindful of the passing vehicles—specifically targeted or not, he’s learned that lesson the hard way and he won’t be quick to forget. And so long as he keeps his chin up and his expression flat, no one dares disturb him and other pedestrians are quick to step out of his way. Thus, he is safe to observe and take mental note of all that he sees as he strides towards home.

And then, quite unexpectedly, something small and sharp bounces off the back of his head. Percival whirls around, hackles instantly raised, and searches out the source. He finds it half-shadowed in the alley he just passed: a glowering boy with unkempt hair and scars that whorl and warp the right side of his neck up to his ear. Percival recognizes Credence immediately and clearly Credence recognizes him as well—except not quite. He and Newt and Tina agreed at the beginning of their search not to introduce Percival to Credence until they were certain the boy understood that Percival is not the man who manipulated and used him. Judging now by the distorted rage on Credence’s face, this decision was well made.

Percival’s hand twitches for his wand, but he stops himself because he is in broad-daylight in the sights of no-majs and because he suspects seeing a wand might exacerbate the situation. So, he opts to hook the handle of his cane over his wrist and hold out his hands, palms forward, to show Credence he means no harm. He moves slowly out of the way of pedestrians, closer to the shadow of the building, keeping himself still and non-threatening much like Newt has taught him to be around his more skittish creatures.

“Credence,” he says gently, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Credence spits something back, but Percival can’t read his lips. The boy is shaking and his form is blurring around the edges.

“If you’ll let me into the alley, I can call Tina and Newt. They’ve been looking for you, they want to help you.”

Credence’s expression wavers. He recognizes at least one of those names; that’s good. He still possesses some of his old self. Tina and Newt will be delighted; this means he can still be saved.

“You’ve no reason to trust me, I know, but I’m not who you think I am. Please,” says Percival, taking a cautious step forward. Credence flinches and then, in a flash of motion, lobs another rock at Percival. It bounces harmlessly off Percival’s chest and he wonders if maybe Credence doesn’t have the strength to shift into a full Obscurus. With a muttered prayer to Morgana for luck, Percival takes a risk and continues to approach the boy. Credence scowls and retreats into the alley and once Percival has passed the threshold, he casts a subtle notice-me-not.

“I’m going to take out my wand, Credence,” he tells the boy gently. “I’m going to use it to summon Tina and Newt. They want to keep you safe, they’re very worried about you.”

Credence presses his back to the brick wall and eyes Percival warily. His form is still fuzzy, but the fact that he hasn’t shifted yet either is a small comfort. Percival notices that he is also tipping his head in a peculiar manner, turning it just so to open his right ear, the ear further from Percival, to the conversation. His left ear is affected by the scarring, the shell of it shrunken and reddened with scar tissue.

“My wand is in my jacket pocket,” says Percival, a tiny bit louder he thinks. “I’m going to take it out now.” He does so and Credence presses harder against the bricks. “The spell I’m going to use is very bright, but I promise it is harmless. It’s going to look like a big silver snake with wings, but it is not going to touch you. Do you understand?”

He waits for Credence to respond and the boy seems startled once he realizes it.

“Is that okay, Credence?” Percival asks, because he feels it’s important to give Credence a choice. “Is it okay if I use a spell to summon Tina and Newt? Would you like that?”

Credence swallows noticeably. His dark eyes dart between Percival’s face—which he keeps calm and open—and the wand held loosely in Percival’s hand. After a minute, he nods minutely.

Percival smiles gently and says, “Thank you, Credence. I’m going to cast the spell now.”

Percival makes sure his wand isn’t pointed near Credence when he casts the Patronus Charm. He turns his back to the sidewalk and aims deeper into the alley and when the silver occamy bursts from his wand tip, it glides past Credence with several feet to spare between them. Credence, who flinches during the incantation, watches the Patronus with wonder in his eyes and for a moment his fear melts away to reveal awe and curiosity. The Patronus circles around and returns to Percival, wings flapping slowly as it hovers almost nose-to-nose with him. Percival tells his Patronus his exact location, adding, “Credence is here and he would very much like me to go away.”

With a flick of his wrist, the occamy Patronus rises and sails away, a glimmer of white barely discernable from the clouds overhead.

“Newt and Tina will be here very soon,” he promises Credence, “and once they get here, I’ll go away and you won’t have to see me unless you decide you want to.”

The fuzziness has lessened, so Percival must be doing something right. He tucks his wand back into his coat and in doing so reveals a flash of turquoise feathers. He notices Credence fixate on that flicker, tense and terribly curious, but so afraid to approach. Hoping to distract the boy and perhaps calm him down, Percival decides to talk to him about occamys.

“That silver creature I summoned just now,” he says, “is called an occamy. I have a real one with me, would you like to see her? Normally, I wouldn’t risk bringing her out in the middle of the street, but I think I’ll make an exception for you.” Percival doesn’t mention the spells protecting them from prying eyes; he suspects that would not make Credence feel any safer in his presence. “Her name is Daphne, she’s very friendly.”

Credence makes a considering face, weighing how little he trusts Percival against how much he wants to see more of the magical world. Eventually, he gives a curt nod. Percival smiles encouragingly and then coaxes Daphne out of his pocket; she’s barely a foot and a half long at the moment, shrunken to fit comfortably in Percival’s pocket. She yawns and stretches her wings, fluffing herself up and wriggling happily in Percival’s palm.

Looking at Credence, Percival thinks he sees the word _small_ and explains, “Occamys can grow and shrink at will. When they feel threatened or scared, they grow until they fill all the available space in a room. Outside of that, when they are resting in their natural size, they grow to fifteen feet maximum.” Percival chuckles fondly. “At least, that what Newt tells me. Personally, I don’t know how he can be certain of that when the whole point is that they _grow and shrink_ whenever they please.” The attempted humor falls flat as Percival suspected it would; Credence can’t let his guard down in the presence of the man whose face caused him such anguish. At the very least, Percival hopes that by continuing to speak to him, Credence will unconsciously retain some notion of the differences between the real Mr. Graves and Grindelwald’s fiction.

Daphne cocks her head at Credence, beak opening as she trills, and stretches out to peer at the boy. Credence stares back her and his eyes widen when she confidently grows half a foot just to get a little closer to him. Then he jumps and whips his head around to search the back of the alley. Newt and Tina have arrived via Apparition and Percival sees the precise moment Credence recognizes them by the way his shoulders loosen and his form becomes sharp at last.

Tina is already speaking to the boy, walking carefully forward with her arms out, radiating maternal comfort and safety. Percival catches Newt’s eye over Tina’s shoulder and the redhead beams at him. Percival smiles and nods to his lover and then Apparates home without a word.

 

\- - -

 

Newt doesn’t come to bed that night. Instead, Percival finds him nestled on the couch the next morning with his half-latched case on the floor by his head. Percival sighs fondly and summons a blanket to spread itself over Newt’s form. He leaves a modest breakfast on the table under a warming charm before he leaves for work.

Percival takes two steps off the lift into the Investigations Department and knows right away that something is wrong. The tension in the air is palpable, it sits like a film on Percival’s skin and leaves a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He immediately goes to Abasi’s desk and indicates for the man to follow him to his office.

Once Percival is seated and the door is firmly shut, Percival gets straight to the point.

“What’s happened?”

Abasi, for his part, is unsurprised by the question and answers promptly. Good man.

“Someone broke into Auror Goldstein’s apartment late last night,” he reports, expression grim. “No one was injured and minimal damage was done, but the fact that someone got in…” Abasi shakes his head.

“Is Goldstein here?” Percival asks. He wonders if Newt was still there when the break-in occurred. He wonders why he wasn’t called for and then thinks that between Tina and Newt, who is far stronger than he looks, a would-be attacker stands no chance. Even if Newt was not there, the Goldstein sisters make for formidable opponents.

“No, sir,” says Abasi. “She sent word early this morning that she will be absent until lunch.”

Typical Tina. Someone forcibly enters her home and she takes only the morning off.

“Thank you, Mr. Abasi,” says Percival. Abasi recognizes the dismissal and takes his leave.

Percival drums his fingers on his desk. It is no coincidence that a break-in occurs immediately after Tina brings Barebone to her home. Percival and Tina knew they were in a race to find the boy first, to find him before Leland Collins and his following. This slow-burning war against Collins is grating on Percival’s nerves, chafing away at his skin until he is raw and all his bones are exposed. This needs to end and it needs to end soon.

Rising fluidly, Percival waves a hand and summons the evidence board he and Tina put together to track Collins’s movements. The board includes the lethifold hallway, the attempted hit-and-run, and other the locations of notable activity—hideouts, alleyways lingered in a touch too long, places that have been visited more than once for reasons yet to be determined. Percival stares, eyes flitting between the marked locations and mentally adding the Goldsteins’ building to the map. Unbidden and abrupt, the memory of a morning not long ago rises in his mind: _Newt and Tina shoulder-to-shoulder at the table, poring over a magical map of the city, marking down all the places they have searched and the places they plan to search…_

“Damn,” Percival curses on a gusty exhale. He summons his Patronus and sends it racing to the Goldsteins’ with an order to relocate to his apartment immediately and then shrinks down the evidence board and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. On his way out, he pauses at Abasi’s desk just long enough to say he’s joining Goldstein and will be out until further notice.

“Is everything alright, sir?” asks Abasi, looking mildly alarmed by the urgency in Percival’s demeanor.

“Just following a hunch,” Percival replies vaguely and hurries to the Apparition point.

Newt is puttering around the kitchen when Percival arrives, teacup drifting at his elbow and stirring itself idly. The redhead looks to be simultaneously making himself a late breakfast and preparing meals for his creatures. A pair of eggs are frying cheerfully on the stovetop while something that looks suspiciously like a _brain_ sits out on a cutting board not even a foot away. A brain with Vasska the swooping evil hunched over it, devouring it with single-minded focus. Percival’s iron constitution has nothing on the blasé manner in which Newt handles the often-revolting dietary needs of his menagerie.

“What sort of brain is that?” Percival asks, narrowing his eyes at the organ in question, the swooping evil, and the implication that the brain came from a _body_. Startled, Newt spins around with a hand over his heart, but then beams when his eyes find Percival’s.

“Howler monkey,” Newt replies promptly, fingers forming the words with equal speed.

“Right,” says Percival. “Tina should be here soon with the boy, ah, Credence. Probably Queenie as well.”

Newt freezes. “Has something happened? They were perfectly alright when I left them last night.”

“Someone broke in,” Percival tells him promptly. “Likely after you left, assuming they’d stand a better chance against a pair of women with no man to protect them.” Percival rolls his eyes as he says this. It’s utter nonsense borne from an archaic notion, but it is, regrettably, still prevalent in today’s society. The sour look on Newt’s face tells Percival that his lover much agrees.

“But they’re alright?” Newt asks, just to be sure.

“Yes, of course,” says Percival, “but I asked them to come here just to be safe and… I think I’ve found something. I’ll explain when they get here.”

Percival doesn’t see how Newt responds, he is already moving the side table where Newt and Tina have stored their maps and notes from their search for Credence. He tugs open the drawer, which appears slim and shallow on the outside and is deep and wide on the inside. The map is readily within his reach, a feature in the charm-work on the table, and Percival brings it to the living room. He takes his evidence board from his pocket, spells it back to its natural size, and levitates Newt and Tina’s map up to hang alongside his.

Daphne nudges his jaw moments before Newt slips his hand into Percival’s and stares keenly at the display. The little occamy leans off Percival’s shoulder to snuffle her beak under Newt’s ear with catlike affection. Newt’s shoulders shake a bit as he chuckles and he brings up his free hand to rub her beak with a gentle fingertip. Appeased, Daphne returns to her loose collar around Percival’s neck and lets Newt return to his study of the board and the maps. It takes only a minute more for the redhead to point to the same shift in pattern that Percival noticed earlier.

Percival glances sideways at his lover. The set of Newt’s mouth and furrow in his brow shows he is troubled, but there is hardness in his eyes. Determination and the will to protect. Percival can taste the ozone of raw magic on the back of his tongue, can feel it simmering beneath Newt’s skin, rippling from his shoulders like heatwaves.

An electric zip of attraction goes up Percival’s spine and he bites his cheek to tamp it down.

The door alarms flash and Percival’s magic announces the arrival of the Goldsteins and one unknown guest. Newt squeezes his hand and then goes to let them in.

Tina’s hands are flying the moment she is within Percival’s visual range. The Goldstein sisters starting learning to sign immediately after the car accident; Tina picked it up right away, learning the shapes and motions nearly as proficiently as Percival, but Queenie has some trouble with it. Her natural Legilimency means she gets more than just what is spoken in a conversation, which has caused her to get confused when their instructor shows them the sign for one word and is already thinking of the next word on the list. Regardless, Queenie puts tremendous effort into learning the language and has done quite well.

“Sadie and Quailfoot are still in our apartment,” Tina says as she enters. “There’s not much in the way of evidence, just some broken locks and a lot of shattered glass. But I think we can safely assume it was at least orchestrated by Collins.” Tina wrinkles her nose when she says his name, as if speaking it brings up a bad flavor. Percival understands that; over the past few months he has become highly attuned to the particular taste and texture of Collins’s magic, leftover on crime scenes and scouted locations. Collins has an aggressive and heavy-handed style that makes for a bitter taste and a gritty residue on the skin.

Tina is rigid with contained agitation, motions stiff and stilted as she tugs off her coat and shoves it in the direction of the coatrack. Her hair is slightly frizzy and her cheeks are flushed and there is fire in her eyes.

Queenie enters with more grace, her motions fluid and thoughtful as she coaxes Credence inside. She is gentle with the young man, but Percival’s unique new abilities allow him to see the magic burning within her. Both sisters are furious about what happened, about having the sanctity and safety of their home breached and broken.

Credence, Percival notices, is just as skittish as he was yesterday and just as jittery. His eyes dart around the room, never landing on one thing for more than a second, and his shoulders are hunched up near his ears. Perhaps he had relaxed somewhat in the pleasant company of the Goldsteins and Newt, in the coziness of the women’s apartment. Whatever progress he’d made is thoroughly lost now that he’s been brought into the strange home of the man whose face once tormented him so.

Percival watches Credence being guided to the couch by gentle Queenie. Newt, still standing near the door, trots into the kitchen where Vasska has reduced her breakfast to a shriveled lump reminiscent of a peach pit and coaxes the swooping evil into his palm. Newt tucks the now cocooned Vasska into his sleeve as he slides past Percival and heads into the living area to sit with Queenie and Credence.

Tina smacks the back of her hand against Percival’s arm for his attention.

“What’s all this?” she asks, gesturing broadly to the board and suspended map.

“This,” Percival says to Tina, “is a very disconcerting discovery.” Percival indicates the red pins that represent the lethifold hallway and the car incident. “We know Collins and his posse were making moves against me, trying to cripple me permanently if not flat-out kill me. But,” Percival gestures the Credence-central map to overlap the Collins map, “around the same time you started searching for Credence, Collins stopped.” He flutters his fingers and the blue pins from the Credence map transfer to the Collins map. Several pins jockey for space as they are magicked to the same position. “We kept track of his whereabouts. I’ve been sending my Aurors to check out the places where he or his followers have been seen loitering suspiciously and as you can see—”

“They’re all either exactly or a block away from places Credence had been spotted,” Tina finishes, angling her face for Percival’s benefit, but staring wide-eyed at the maps. “Which means Collins is also after Credence and has one of my informants in his pocket.”

“We’re damned lucky Credence found us first,” Percival says with a dark furrow in his brow.

“Yes, we are, and I’m beyond relieved, but I’m pretty mad that Collins knows where I live,” Tina grouses. “I know it’s in my file, but what reason would he have to look that up? And if he didn’t look it up before he started this whole business, that means he stalked and followed me home at some point in the past, what, seven months?” Tina scowls and shakes her head. “What a creep.”

“We’ll have to double our efforts in tracking down and arresting him now that he has made himself a danger to civilians,” Percival says with a deep sigh. He hoped he and Tina would be able to handle it, but now it is apparent that he’s going to have to bring others into the case—Abasi, ideally, but maybe Lynch has some useful insight considering he and Collins were once good friends.

Tina glowers at the maps. Collins’s proximity is tantalizing, he is so close, always flitting within their sights and just out of their grasp. He is doing this on purpose, showboating, taunting. Percival rather hates the man. He was an excellent Auror, greatly talented and whip-smart, if only he’d been less arrogant. And now that he has been dishonorably removed from his position, he is using his extensive skills to keep himself within their sights and maddeningly beyond their reach.

Tina touches his arm.

“I think it would be prudent to get Credence out of the city,” she says, quietly, Percival guesses based on the way she leans in close and keeps her signing as concise at it can be.

“Do you have any thoughts or suggestions?” Percival asks. He makes no attempts at lowering his voice, he has long since given up on such things and has begun to stop thinking or worrying about it.

Tina presses her lips together and the crease between her eyebrows tells Percival that she might have one, but she isn’t sure how well it would be received. Percival narrows his eyes at her, expectant. Tina opens her mouth to explain and then whips around to face the couch and its occupants behind them. Percival turns sharply, immediately on alert with his wand in his hand.

Nothing is obviously out of place.

Credence is on the middle cushion of the couch with Newt and Queenie on either side of him. His head is tilted funnily to one side, his right side, and his eyes are faraway and unfocused. His mouth is slack and his shoulders are slumped. His mind, it seems, is miles away. Newt is worrying is lower lip between his teeth, hands fidgeting in his lap with the hem of his waistcoat. His eyes are flickering over the young man, jumping to differing points on his face, taking in the scar tissue and the slackened posture with a tight expression. Queenie has one delicate hand resting atop Credence’s, both of which are clenched over his knees.

Newt catches Percival’s eyes and, with a saddened expression, says and signs, “He did this last night. He just goes away for a few minutes. Queenie peeked at his mind and said there was nothing there, just a constant buzzing noise.”

“Have you spoken to him about Mathilda?” Percival asks. This development is troubling and speaks of great trauma and mental damage. There’s a chance therapy won’t be enough to help the young man, that he is too deeply and mentally damaged to achieve full recovery. Percival doesn’t plan to mention this; he knows Newt and Queenie and Tina have already thought it themselves and have consciously decided to disregard it. No one is beyond help, Tina would insist, and everyone deserves to be helped.

“Not yet,” Newt says. “There wasn’t exactly a moment to bring it up after we brought him to the Goldsteins’. We were primarily concerned with keeping him calm and convincing him to eat.”

“Understandable.” Percival looks at Credence, who is wavering slightly in his seat. Still staring and unblinking and worryingly motionless. “How long was he like this last night?”

“A few minutes,” answers Newt. “We were reluctant to touch him in case he was having a flashback and would react badly to it, but after about four minutes he just… Came back.”

 _Came back how_ is on Percival’s tongue when Credence begins to blink and look around, presence and clarity returning to his dark eyes. His gaze finds Percival’s and he shrinks back into the cushions and against Queenie’s side, as if trying to hide behind someone he knows to be strong and safe. Queenie, sitting on his left side, is quick to clasp his hands in hers and begin murmuring reassurances. Percival can’t make out every single word, but he gets the gist of what she is telling him: _he won’t hurt you, he wants to help you, this is not the man who hurt you, he’s our friend and we trust him_.

Credence does not appear convinced, but he doesn’t protest when Queenie carefully nudges him out from behind her. He regards Percival suspiciously, but there are notes of curiosity as his gaze flicks occasionally to Daphne, draped like a loose scarf about Percival’s shoulders.

“I know you’re uncomfortable with me,” Percival understates, addressing Credence calmly and with as little motion as possible, “but all we want is to keep you safe and this is the safest place for you at the moment.”

“You said you wanted to help me before,” Credence accuses. “You lied. You threw me away like garbage.”

His dead calm is chilling the behold. The whitening of his irises is even more so.

Percival takes a step back. Tina rushes forward to help her sister and Newt soothe the young man before he can shift any further. Considering his fate last year, Percival still isn’t entirely sure Credence can fully shift; according to the reports, so much of him was lost that he was declared dead in all official records. Even just by looking at him, you can see the physical toll the attack took on him and after a few minutes with him, you can detect the mental toll as well.

The boy is traumatized, deeply so, and he is still infested with a malignant magical parasite that can potentially explode out of him at the slightest provocation. He’s going to need something to help him stay calm, stay present and outside of his own mind. He needs someone who can be with him twenty-four-seven in a way that the Goldsteins and Newt simply cannot be. He needs a companion…

Percival looks at the bottom drawer of the bureau, the one with the occamy nest, and an idea comes to him.

“Newt,” he says, still staring at the drawer, “will you come with me a moment?”

He glances at his lover and sees the redhead nod and extract himself from the sisters. Credence tracks Newt’s departure with narrowed eyes, suspicious of Percival and what he might do to the only man he trusts. Percival leads Newt to the kitchen, where they can have some privacy but still be within Credence’s sightline.

Signing only, Percival says, _Credence needs a Daphne_. He has to finger-spell Credence’s name as they have not yet come up with a sign for it like they have for Daphne—at the very least, Percival is able to finger-spell quickly and Newt has a keen eye for quickness.

 _A Daphne_? Newt asks. _You mean an occamy._

 _A companion,_ signs Percival. _I think one of the occamys can be taught to do what Daphne does. I’ve been observing them and I believe they have the aptitude._

Newt is beaming by the end of the sentence, clearly thrilled by Percival’s faith in his creatures and his commitment to helping Credence.

“And don’t worry,” Percival adds, speaking now as well as signing. “I’ve written down all of my observations for you. You really ought to write a book exclusively about occamys.” He winks and Newt laughs delightedly.

“First chance I get,” Newt promises and then dips in to press a firm kiss to Percival’s lips. When he leans back, Percival can see the spark of inspiration in his lover’s eye and prepares himself for the barrage of information he’ll be reading from his lips. Newt does not disappoint. He says, “I know just the occamy for the job. Darwin is still quite young, but he’s the one who hatched in front of Jacob. He’ll be the most likely to take to a human companion and the quickest to learn as he’s not yet old enough to be set in his ways. He’s perfect!” Newt surges forward abruptly and smacks another kiss to Percival’s mouth. “You’re perfect!”

Then he spins on his heel and dashes to the bureau, leaving Percival slightly dazed and dumbfounded and utterly besotted in his wake. After a moment, he clears his throat and straightens his already straight shirt and decides to stay where he is for the time being.

He wouldn’t say he is hiding in his kitchen, he is simply finding ways to keep himself busy and out of the way while Newt introduces Credence to Darwin. The remnants of Newt’s egg breakfast are still on the table and the husk of Vasska’s meal is still sitting out on the cutting board. Percival flicks his wand to vanish away the food scraps, hesitates over the brain husk, and then sends that floating off to seal itself in a jar in case Newt needs it for something later. He oversees the plate, frying pan, and cutting board scrubbing themselves clean in the sink. Then spells them dry and directs them to their proper places in the kitchen. All said and done, this takes him no more than fifteen minutes.

Sometimes, in moments like these, he thinks he needs a hobby. He isn’t very good at being idle, even in his own home. Especially not when his own home is so full of people and a potential situation.

Percival is just considering going back to the office to give Credence space when Daphne nudges his shoulder. The young man in question is hovering in the double-wide doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Newt and the Goldsteins are hovering behind him in staggered levels of nearness; Tina, the closest to Credence, is barely two steps away. Credence’s hands are flexing and fisting at his sides and his jaw is tight. Regardless, he appears fully present and in control. There is also a curious shine of protectiveness in his dark eyes that Percival finds rather intriguing.

“Yes, Credence?” Percival asks calmly. “Can I help you with anything?”

The young man doesn’t answer for a minute, then he bites out, “He kissed you. What did you say to him that made him do that?”

A few feet behind Tina, Newt’s eyebrows are rising to meet his hairline and his mouth is forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. Credence thinks Percival is manipulating Newt. Percival is touched by the boy’s fast loyalty to Newt and worried what that loyalty might mean for him should Credence get the wrong idea.

“I suggested he introduce you the nest of occamys,” Percival replies, tucking his wand away and making sure Credence can see his harmless, empty hands.

Credence narrows his eyes, still suspicious of Percival’s intention.

“Why would that make him kiss you?”

Percival deliberates for a moment, wondering how best to answer, and then settles on the truth as he confidently knows it to be.

“Newt kissed me because he loves me and he knows that I love him.”

Percival holds eye contact with Credence as he says this, trying to convey in his expression just how honest and serious he is about this, about Newt. This doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice how Newt smiles sweetly and raises his right hand, palm forward, middle and ring fingers folded down, index and pinky finger and thumb out. Nor does he miss the way Queenie mimics a swoon or the smirk on Tina’s face. And Credence… Credence just continues to stare at Percival, his expression inscrutable and his mouth a tight frown.

Then, a tense moment later, Credence steps away from the doorframe and slinks back into the living room.

Percival sighs heavily.

To Tina, he says, “I’m going back to work. It’s best for Credence that I’m not here any longer than I absolutely need to me. I’ll see that your apartment is cleared and ready for you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Tina, still smirking. She tips him a jaunty salute and a wink before turning pertly on her heel and trotting after Credence. She hooks Queenie’s arm with hers on her way and Percival thanks Merlin and Morgana for blessing him with such an intelligent woman. Then Newt sidles up to him with mirthful eyes crinkling at the corners and slides his hands up Percival’s arms, over his shoulders, and link them behind Percival’s neck.

“That was rather presumptuous of you, Mr. Graves,” Newt says, joyful and coy.

“Terribly so, Mr. Scamander,” Percival agrees, feeling his voice rumble in his chest. “Though I do believe I presumed correctly, did I not?”

“You did indeed.”

Percival meets Newt’s kiss halfway.

 

\- - -

 

Percival strides through the halls of the MACUSA with purpose and determination. His expression is stony and his aura crackles with magic. Witches and wizards skitter out of his way and watch him as he goes with wide eyes as they wonder who is about to suffer his obvious temper. Percival doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, until he reaches Investigations and even then it’s only to scan the bullpen.

“Abasi. Lynch,” he barks as he carries on to his office. He doesn’t check if they are following, he knows they are. He can feel their unique magical signatures trailing behind him like nervous ducklings. He waves open his office door and then waves it shut behind his two most senior Aurors.

Percival doesn’t sit, he is too restless, instead he stands behind his desk and plants his hands on its smooth, dark surface. In this position he looms over his seated Aurors, who, to their credit, appear outwardly calm and unafraid.

“This business with Collins has gone on long enough,” Percival growls out. “Tell me we have something, anything, to help us bring him in. Something has to have changed.”

Percival expects Abasi to jump in, he always seems have some tidbit of information at the ready when Percival needs it, but this time it is Lynch who straightens in his seat. Leonard Lynch is a couple years past Percival’s forty and has a generous sprinkling of salt in his dark, close cut hair. He is blocky and stout, his face lined with stress and frequent frowning, but he has a keen mind and a quick draw.

“A letter came to me this morning, sir,” he says, producing said letter from his inner jacket pocket. “I meant to share it with you first thing, but…” He shrugs and Percival waves him on, understanding. “I reached out to Mrs. Collins several weeks ago, thinking she might have something to offer the case, but she never responded. I wrote it off as a dead end. Then she sent me this.” Lynch holds the folded letter out and Percival stops leaning on his hands so he can accept it and unfold it.

In a quick once over, Percival catches a few key words and phrases: _divorce, custody, failed to show, missing_.

“Go on,” he says to Lynch.

“Well,” Lynch says, “as we already know, after he was fired Collins didn’t search for new work. Last I heard from him directly was six months ago when he told me his wife was filing for divorce.” Percival nods, he knows all this. “I figured I’d give Anita some space before I started pestering her, but after the no-maj car incident… Apparently, and this is all in the letter, sir, Collins has been skipping court dates. When someone checks his place, he’s not home and won’t respond to any attempts at contact. Anita’s got the kids at her parents’ place and says they claim to see him lurking on the street outside sometimes. He’s frightening them. Makes it seem like he doesn’t want them, but won’t attend meetings with the lawyers to let her officially keep them on her own.

“He finally showed up a couple days ago and signed the divorce papers and the custody papers. Anita wrote that he didn’t say much, nothing to her at all, and that he looked… I think the word she uses is _unhinged_. Like he was at his wit’s end, one straw away from snapping.”

Percival drags a weary hand across his face.

“Excellent,” he says dryly. “Lynch, follow up with Anita, get permission to stake out her parents’ house in case Collins goes back there. Take Goodwin and a junior with you. You’ll have to come back should that permission be granted, and I’m sure it will be, in which case someone needs to stay there to make sure the family is protected.”

“Yes, sir,” Lynch says and hurries out.

Percival drums his fingers irritably on his desk. The joy of exchanging those three words with Newt vanished when he stepped foot into the Woolworth Building. Reality has a funny of not being funny in the slightest.

“So, we’ve got a man who was fired, divorced, and had his kids taken away in short order,” Percival says darkly. “And we all know how Collins was with responsibility.”

“He blames you,” Abasi says by way of agreement. “You started all this by firing him.”

“As if his wife wouldn’t have divorced him eventually anyway,” Percival grumbles and sits heavily in his chair. He sees Abasi chuckle at his comment.

“Sir,” Abasi says, expression slightly hesitant. “Your hunch earlier, what was it?”

Percival leans back in his chair. Daphne slides down into his lap and coils herself neatly. Percival strokes her feathers absently as he answers. “Collins shifted his focus. He started targeting the street kid Goldstein’s been looking for.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very. Tina found the kid yesterday afternoon.”

“And this morning her home gets broken into.”

“Indeed. Has Strenburg come back from checking out the place?” Percival asks.

Abasi checks his watch. “Should be soon.”

“Send her in when she does. She’ll be able to help me confirm the connection.”

“Yes, sir,” says Abasi. He rises, then asks, “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No,” Percival says, “Thank you.”

Abasi nods and leaves. Percival waits until the door has shut behind his most senior Auror before dropping his head in his hands and rubbing his temples. Daphne bumps his chin and he lowers one hand to stroke her feathers obligingly. Daphne seems to have semi-correctly learned that signs of stress means she must demand pets. It’s a useful trick, Percival supposes, as the rhythmic and repetitive motions of petting the little creature are quite soothing.

When Strenburg and Quailfoot enter ten minutes later, Percival feels significantly calmer and less likely to rip his hair out in frustration.

“Hello, Director,” says Strenburg as she enters, says and…signs. Percival narrows his eyes at her. “Abasi said to debrief with you?”

Her signing is spotty, she doesn’t know the shapes and motions of every word, but it’s decent enough.

“Strenburg,” Percival says. “Why are you using Sign Language?”

She beams and explains, “I’m trying to learn it. Personal interest.” She shrugs. “Gotta practice as much as I can if I want to get fluent.”

He glances at Quailfoot, who also shrugs as if to say _Don’t look at me, sir, I don’t know either_. Then he sighs.

“Alright, then, get on with it. What did you find?”

“A lot of shattered glass and a few broken locks,” Strenburg reports. “Goldstein said we wouldn’t find anything missing and we didn’t. She and Queenie were still up when the break-in occurred and fought the guy off soon as he entered. The whole thing didn’t last more than five minutes, according to the sisters. I logged some boot prints and a bit of blood, which I sent off to Brangham. If we have this guy in our system already, we’ll know who he is by tonight.”

“Very good,” says Percival. “Has the apartment been put back in order?”

“As best as I can put it, sir, without the Goldstein’s there to scrutinize,” says Strenburg. “They left in a real hurry with that kid Tina picked up…”

Strenburg is fishing. She isn’t in on the more intimate details of Tina’s case or Percival’s, but she smart enough to know they are bigger than they seem and, now, likely connected somehow. She’s got a hell of a nose for connections and inferences, able to suss out fact from fiction quicker than most of her colleagues. Percival would prefer she keep her talent directed towards catching criminals rather than her coworkers’ business.

“Yes, and now they’ll be able to hurry back when you inform Tina her home is no longer a crime scene,” Percival says blandly.

Strenburg makes a sour face at his diversion, but manages to keep herself professional. Since the incident with the lethifold and the hallway, Percival has found himself being slightly more lenient with Strenburg in that she can get away with acknowledging his tactics for what they are and making faces to show her displeasure at being diverted. If Goodwin or Rossini ever tried to scrunch their noses at him or imply that they suspect something of Percival’s own case, he would shut them down and send them away. With Strenburg, Percival merely maintains his neutral expression and takes a private pleasure in her frustration.

Quailfoot, beside and slightly behind her superior, watches the exchange with a bewildered expression. Quailfoot, though she respects Percival and knows that he is fair, has a healthy fear of crossing a line with him.

“I believe Tina intends to return after lunch,” says Percival, though he isn’t actually sure as the subject didn’t come up, but Percival is excellent at bluffing. “Get back to work now, Strenburg.”

The corner of Strenburg’s mouth twitches upward with amusement as she says, “Yes, sir, right away, sir,” and marches out of the office. Quailfoot gives Percival a curt nod and then hurries after Strenburg like a puppy after its mum.

 

\- - -

 

Newt is the only person in the apartment when Percival returns home late that evening. Tina did come back to the office after lunch; she gave Percival a brief update on how things were going with Credence and then buried herself in work as is her wont. With permission, she left slightly early to collect her sister and her new ward from Percival’s apartment and re-settle them at home.

Percival steps through the warding around his front door and feels a wash of relief when the only presence it informs him of is Newt’s. He shrugs off his coat and leaves his cane by the door and follows the earthy scent of Newt’s magic to the bedroom. The redhead is halfway inside the open wardrobe, rear-end protruding comically as he digs through the hanging coats and jackets. Percival takes a moment to admire the view before he can resist no longer.

He pinches Newt’s butt.

Newt’s entire body lurches and tumbles forward into the wardrobe and Percival cannot stop the guffaw of laughter that bursts out of him. The noise bubbles in his chest and resonates as it climbs his throat and escapes from his mouth. It feels glorious. Percival continues laughing, eventually simmering down to a chuckle, as he watches Newt scramble free of the hanging coats. Flushed bright red and hair disastrously ruffled, Newt spins around with an indignant expression that quickly dissolves into matching humor. He smacks ineffectually at Percival’s chest, the reprimand humorous rather than serious.

“Rude!” he exclaims, laughing. Percival just grins and tugs Newt to his chest for a warm embrace that Newt returns without hesitation. They stand for moment in each other’s arms, rocking slightly with Percival’s nose tucked against Newt’s neck, savoring the warm earthy scent of his lover’s magic. He feels all the stress and frustration and tension of the day melt away, feels his shoulders loosen and his breath come easier.

Newt pulls back and cups a warm hand to Percival’s cheek.

He says, “Come on, love, let’s get you to bed.”


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt smiles crookedly in response and then leans forward to peck Percival on the lips. “Stay the night, have breakfast with your parents,” he says, “it’ll make your mother so happy. I’ll survive without you for one night. Somehow.”
> 
> “Somehow,” Percival echoes, amused and terribly fond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, guys...

A week crawls by with so little progress there may as well have been none. Percival feels like he is slowly going insane. Tina gives the Madam President regular updates on Credence’s progress in a carefully devised plan to keep Picquery reassured that her city is perfectly safe. On Friday, Queenie takes Credence to his first meeting with Mathilda Merry. That same evening, after dinner, Percival makes two cups of tea and sits with Newt in the living room and asks the question that has been burning at the forefront of his mind.

“Could you pull the Obscurus from Credence like you did that girl in Sudan?”

Newt sips his tea as he ponders his answer, cradling the teacup in both hands and inhaling deeply. When he is ready, he places the teacup on a coaster on the table and then adjust his seat to face Percival more directly.

“I could,” he says, decided in his signing and in his expression, “but I would prefer not to except as a last resort. The girl… Roaa. She was already dying and I thought removing the Obscurus might save her, but. It was already too late. Credence is certainly strong enough, healthy enough, to have the Obscurus safely removed, but I don’t think it will be necessary. It’s strength is rather significantly diminished and his emotional control has already greatly improved. I think, if we keep him on his current track and he continues to progress as he has, he will be fine. Perhaps someday he might even capable of performing simple spells.”

Since there is no precedent for an Obscurial surviving to adulthood (or surviving a deadly attack, even), there is no way to know what will become of Credence’s natural magic. It may be irrevocably damaged, it may be entirely gone, or it may still be accessible. Only time will tell.

In addition to a book on occamys, Newt could probably write a book on Obscurials at this point. Percival says as much to the magizoologist and Newt’s expression bursts into bright laughter. The laughter naturally subsides and they sit peacefully together, smiling and gazing at each other with bright eyes.

After a moment, Percival asks, “Have you asked Credence if he would like the Obscurus removed?”

Newt shakes his head. “I’ve considered it, but I’m hesitant to ask while he is still so emotionally fragile. I think it may be best to wait for the time being.”

“Until he is more able to make the decision rationally,” Percival finishes, nodding understandingly.

“Quite right,” says Newt, not signing as he says this, largely to himself as his mind drifts off to follow a thought. Percival is used to this and is unoffended, simply leans back against the cushions and strokes Daphne’s feathers. Newt eventually summons a notebook and pen and begins to scribble with his usual excited fervor. Percival sips his tea and watches Newt write fondly, feeling sleepy and content and blissfully free of stress.

Percival glances out the window, where a rain has finally broken free of the darkening clouds and is pattering gently against the glass. His mind wanders back to a week ago when Tina suggested getting him out of the city and then was never able to continue the conversation. He is fairly certain he knows what Tina was thinking, knows where she wants to send him, and he’s given it a lot of thought himself. He thinks it is a good idea.

“Do you have any plans for this weekend?” he asks.

Newt closes his notebook around his pen and angles himself towards Percival, expression curious. “I was planning to work with Credence on how to train Darwin. He’s doing alright, Darwin that is, but he keeps wanting to move to Credence’s right side and we need him to stay on the left…”

Percival nods, this is a very important task. He can go alone, then.

“I’m going to visit my parents,” he tells his partner. “I think Credence would benefit from a quieter environment and guardians who can watch him around the clock if need be.”

Newt laughs and is still chuckling as he beings to sign and say, “Tina has been agonizing over how to bring this up without angering or offending you.”

“Why would I be angry or offended?” he asks, genuinely confused, but amused by Tina’s eternal fretting when it comes to her boss.

Newt shrugs, just as confused. “She doesn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Well, assure her that that is not the case,” says Percival with a slight grin. “I don’t intend to stay the night, but it is not beyond the realm of possibility.” His mother will be over the moon with joy at seeing him and Percival has rather a hard time saying no to her.

Newt smiles crookedly in response and then leans forward to peck Percival on the lips. “Stay the night, have breakfast with your parents,” he says, “it’ll make your mother so happy. I’ll survive without you for one night. Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Percival echoes, amused and terribly fond.

 

\- - -

 

Florence Graves is indeed thrilled to see her oldest son Apparate onto the edge of the Estate. She is in the garden that bookends the front door, tending to her fanged geraniums. She looks up when she hears the _pop!_ of Apparition and then hastily tucks away her wand as she hurries down the gravel drive.

“Oh, Perry!” she exclaims, radiant with happiness, and then shapes, “ _Oh_!” as she seems to recall something. She slows her pace so that she may concentrate as she brings her hands up and carefully signs, _It is good to see you_.

Percival laughs and scoops his mother into a tight embrace. Daphne squawks and accommodates by lengthening and looping herself around Florence’s shoulders affectionately.

“What brings you here?” asks Florence when they separate. Then she waves her hands as if to erase the question. “We’ll go inside first, let your father know you’re here and then we’ll have some coffee while we chat!”

Percival smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”

He holds out his elbow for his mother to take and then escorts her inside. Twenty minutes later they are gathered in the same sitting room where Percival once introduced his parents to New and informed them of his disability. They sit now with cups of coffee at mid-morning for a very different, but no less life-changing, conversation—if they say yes, that is.

First, though, they chat. Florence and Gideon happily tell him all the local gossip about who is doing what or going where and which shops in town have gone out of business and what is set to replace them. Florence chatters a bit about her gardening club and how the geraniums in the garden are their current focus. Gideon asks about the news and how things are going at work; he asks if Perry has any updates concerning Grindelwald’s trial in Germany (he does not, he has purposely avoided reading about the trial because the reports always bring him up in some capacity and it makes him feel ill). In turn, Percival updates his parents on Newt’s work, proudly tells them about the occamys that live in his bureau drawer and then with equal pride tells them about the great progress being made by his Junior Aurors. He mentions Sadie Strenburg and her reaction to learning Percival is related to Roland and that gets a good laugh from his parents. And then…

“I didn’t just come here for a social visit,” he admits, setting aside his mostly-empty coffee cup. Florence and Gideon do not appear terribly surprised by this and it makes Percival privately vow to visit more often. “I’m afraid I must ask you a rather large favor,” he says. “The Goldsteins have a young man in their custody who…” Percival pauses, considering his words, “Who needs the kind of support they cannot offer while they both work regular jobs. He needs a home environment and Tina thought bringing him here, to be with you, would be good for him. I’ve thought about it and I agree with her.”

Gideon is unreadable, but Florence’s wide-eyes and raised brows indicate that she is willing.

“You want us to take this young man in,” says Gideon, revealing nothing.

“If you are willing, yes,” says Percival.

“Is he in danger?”

“Only from himself,” Percival replies promptly and then bites the proverbial bullet. “He’s an Obscurial, but the Obscurus within him has been mostly destroyed.”

This reveal makes even Gideon’s jaw drop, which in turn makes Percival smile with grim humor. Florence has her clasped hands pressed over her heart, ever the empathetic figure, and her eyes are glistening.

“The poor dear,” she says. “How old is he? You said young man, but surely…!”

“I believe he is nearly twenty.”

“Twenty!” exclaims Florence and Percival nods.

“And he survived that long with an Obscurus?” asks Gideon, amazement clear on his face.

“He did,” Percival confirms. “Credence, the young man, is incredibly powerful, or he could have been had he not been nearly killed. I believe he still has great potential, but he needs to be in a nurturing environment.”

“Okay,” says Gideon and Florence is nodding along with him.

“I should warn you,” says Percival, “that Leland Collins has been chasing Credence. We’re still not sure why, but it was a near thing and we’re damned lucky that Credence found us first.”

“Collins is that rotten man who accused you of being complicit?” asks Gideon, very nearly scowling. When Percival nods, Gideon huffs and says, “If he comes ‘round here looking to hurt that boy, I’ll be ready to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Oh, I have more than a few words for him, myself,” Florence says fiercely and Percival positively glows with love for his family.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Does this mean you will agree to take him in? It does not have to be a permanent arrangement, just until he is recovered…”

“Don’t be silly, that young man can stay here as long as he pleases,” says Florence. “Just write ahead to let us know when he’ll be arriving and I’ll have the guest room ready for him.”

Percival smiles. “Thank you, mom.”

The rest of the day drifts by. Percival helps his mother with her fanged geraniums, trimming browning leaves and removing the occasional cavity. It’s no easy task even with magic, but his mother’s earnest enjoyment and delight at having her son as her side makes it more than worthwhile.

Over lunch, he tells his parents as much as he can remember about Credence’s ordeal and how it has affected him. Gideon asks if Percival or Newt have notes on how to train occamys and Percival assures him that Newt will not leave them unprepared for the beast element of the job. For the sake of his father’s peace of mind, however, he goes on to tell Gideon everything he knows about occamy care and training off the top of his head.

Later, mother and son sit out in the backyard on a blanket spread out on the grass, music tinkling through the open windows of the screen porch, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine before autumn makes it chill. Percival gamely tutors his mother in sign language, making something of a game of fingerspelling the alphabet starting from different points and then teaching her how to sign some of the most common plant breeds—the common ones being the only ones he actually knows the sign for because they’re used in potions and therefore come up at work. Percival has made a point of learning all the words that are likely to come up at work, because he is nothing if not staunchly efficient.

“If you find some poems or songs you like,” says Percival, gently correcting Florence’s fingers, “and then work on translating it word for word into signs, it’ll make memorizing signs easier. Rhythm and repetition and all that.”

“Really?” asks Florence. “How did you come up with that?”

“I didn’t, it was suggested to me by my tutor,” says Percival. “At the time, it was disheartening as I couldn’t listen to any of my favorite songs to refresh the lyrics in my mind, but then I started collecting poems.”

“Do you still have any memorized?”

Percival thinks for a moment and then brings up his hands and begins to sign, murmuring the words like an afterthought as he goes. “And who shall separate the dust / What later shall we be: / Whose keen discerning eye will scan / And solve the mystery?

“The high, the low, the rich, the poor, / The black, the white, the red / And all the chromatique—I labored over this word for nearly an hour until I discovered the author made it up—all the chromatique between, / Of whom shall it be said:

“Here lies the dust of Africa; / Here are the sons of Rome; / Here lies the one unlabeled, / The world at large his home!

“Can one then separate the dust? / Will mankind lie apart, / When life has settled back again / The same as from the start?”*

Percival lowers his hands to his lap once his recitation is finished. Florence applauds—with actual clapping and not the signed version of applause—and grins fondly at him. Percival inclines his head towards the left and then towards the right like a showman thanking his audience after a performance. Florence laughs.

“That was wonderful,” she insists. “I can see why you still remember that one, it’s very…hm, very _you_.”

Percival chuckles, “Yes, it rather spoke to me.”

Conversation and tutoring stops there as a silver shape arcs gracefully over the garden wall and then coalesces into the familiar shape of the Goldstein sisters’ shared stallion Patronus. The horse glides over to its wide-eyed watchers and comes to stand over Percival, then lowers its head to bump the man’s cheek. The Patronus’s touch is warm and tingly, almost apologetic, and dread creeps up in Percival’s stomach. Then the stallion stretches its neck and shakes out its mane and a piece of folded parchment flutters free.

Percival reaches up and plucks the parchment from the air. Once he has in his grasp, the stallion tosses its head and dissolves into a fine mist that dissipates quickly. In his peripheral, Percival sees his mother leaning forward keenly and likely asking what the note is and who it is from and so on.

Daphne buzzes against his neck and rubs her face fiercely along his jaw. Percival strokes her feathers until the trembling in his fingers dies down a little bit and then, with a deep breath, unfolds the note. 

 

> _Percival –_
> 
> _There has been an attack. Newt is at St. Agatha’s, condition critical, will explain more when you get here. Collins suspected. Attacker got away, Abasi is in pursuit._
> 
> _Credence is safe._
> 
> _Tina_

Percival’s entire world crashes down around him. He holds the note out in Florence’s direction, preferring her to read the note herself than have to attempt speaking or signing with his mind so far away. Moments later, Florence’s arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight and rocking him gently back and forth. Then she pulls back, hands still firm on his shoulders, and says, “Go.”

Percival nods and lets his mother take his hands and draw him to his feet, though she does little to actually help him rise. Florence cups his face and tugs him down as she stand on her toes to kiss his forehead.

“Go,” she says again, “and tell us how Newt is as soon as you can.”

“I will,” he promises, voice hoarse with heavy emotion. Then he steps away and hurries through the house. He does not see Gideon on his way, his father is likely in his study, but it is for the best. He does not wish to delay even for a moment.

As soon as Percival reaches the edge of the property at the end of the drive, he Apparates directly to St. Agatha’s. The attendant at the Apparition point takes one look at Percival and starts forward with concern written across his brow. He thinks Percival has arrived injured or unwell. Percival waves him off and carries on to the waiting room. Among the strangers waiting for loved ones, Percival finds Sadie sitting in a corner, leg jiggling anxiously as she gnaws on her thumbnail.

“Sadie,” Percival says, unsure of his volume, but loud enough to be heard as Sadie jumps immediately to her feet.

“Mr. Graves,” she shapes, forgetting to sign in her rush.

“Where is Newt?” he asks urgently. Nothing else is important right now.

Sadie starts leading him out of the waiting room, walking backwards so he can read her lips. “The Healers are still tending to him, but they have a private waiting room booked for us closer to his room.”

Sadie turns around at this point, needing to see to read the buttons on the lift. Percival heart sinks to his stomach when she presses the button for the fifth floor, the critical care ward. Reading the words on paper were one thing, dreadful and gutting, but seeing it acknowledged by another, seeing the words printed in an official manner is a further punch to the heart.

Tina is waiting for them when the lift doors slide apart, pacing the short width of the corridor and wringing her hands anxiously. She looks up when Percival and Sadie step out of the lift.

“Oh, Percival!” she exclaims, eyes red-rimmed and distraught. There are smudges down her cheeks and a pinkness in her nose, like she has been crying but hastily tried to scrub away the evidence. She grabs his arm and leads him to the private waiting room where Queenie is sitting with Credence under her arm. The poor young man is hollow-eyed and staring, trapped in one of his mental absences. Darwin is curled in his lap, the approximate size of a large housecat and gripping his little feet around Credence’s fingers. Credence is so far gone that he does not react to Percival’s entrance.

Tina guides him to a chair and then drags one around so they can sit face to face. She doesn’t wait for him to ask, she just jumps right into the explanation, signing efficiently along.

“Queenie and Newt took him to see Mathilda about an hour ago. He said he was feeling anxious and couldn’t explain why…” She swallows and shakes her head a bit. “After the session, as they were leaving,” she glances over at Queenie and Credence, who don’t appear to be listening or aware that anyone has entered the room, she lowers her voice anyway, “someone was waiting for them in the alley. According to Queenie, it was one man, but he had the jump on them and was ready with a spell. Newt… Well, you know Newt. He can’t stand anyone he loves to be hurt, so he. The spell was meant for Credence, but he. Stepped in front of it. Queenie says it sliced him open from chest to stomach, but he, um, he didn’t stop fighting. He countered and Queenie tried to help, but Credence was panicking and he was starting to blur and.” Tina cuts off, her face crumpled in a wretched expression before she claps her hands over her mouth. Then she jumps and whips around to look at her sister; Percival follows her stare.

“Credence nearly tore the guy apart,” says Queenie, staring at Percival without seeming to really see him. Her eyes are glazed, her cheeks flushed and streaked and she is trembling. “I tried so hard, but he was so scared and Newt was bleeding… Oh Mercy Lewis, there was blood everywhere and…” Her throats bobs as she swallows thickly. “The Obscurus ain’t too big anymore, couldn’t transform him completely, but it. It pulled the skin off the guy’s arm, gave me a chance to stun him. Newt was on the ground and he wasn’t moving or saying nothing…”

Queenie trails off and that seems to be the end of her ability to speak. She turns her face back to Credence and rests her chin atop his head. Tina taps Percival’s knee to regain his attention.

“Queenie got them here and then a Healer contacted me. I sent you my Patronus with a note before I left and then sent one to Sadie, asking her to wait for you downstairs.”

The reminder of Sadie’s presence has Percival looking around, he finds her leaning against the wall by the door, gnawing on her thumbnail again.

“Has there been any word on when we can see Newt?” Percival asks. He doesn’t like sitting still when there is something else he could be doing and this is apparently still true when the love of his life is in critical condition.

“No,” says Tina. “A Healer came by about ten minutes before you arrived, but it was only to give Queenie and Credence chocolate.”

Percival drums his fingers on his knees. His thoughts are still fuzzy and he can’t seem to catch his breath. He feels like he needs to be moving, like he can’t stand still while Newt is in trouble, even though the resilient voice of reason buried deep within him is shouting that Newt is _here_ and there is nothing he, personally, can do. The Healers are already doing everything in their power to save Newt’s life and all Percival can do is wait.

Percival hates waiting.

“I need,” he says, cuts himself off, and stands abruptly. Tina jumps up with him, eyes wide, wanting to help and unsure of how to do that. Percival starts over, “I need to do something. I need to take a walk.”

Tina nods understandingly and proves herself to be impressively intuitive once again. “They use the same alley that you do to Apparate to Mathilda’s. Abasi took Franklin and Hass to investigate the scene and pursue the attacker, they’re probably still there.”

Percival dips his chin appreciatively and sweeps out of the room. He feels like his chest is vibrating with nerves, hot and full of friction, inexplicably constricting his lungs and spilling acid into his stomach. From the hospital’s Apparition point, he twists and transports himself to an alley in Mathilda’s area and walks the rest of the way.

The alley appears perfectly normal as Percival approaches it, but he can taste the ozone of magic on his tongue. The barriers feel like cool water trickling over him when he crosses them. On the other side, the alley is scorched and bloodied and the bricks are scarred by spellfire. Trashcans are overturned and refuse spills across the ground, splattered red and singed around the edges.

Auror Franklin is crouched at the far end of the alley, angled slightly away from Percival and intent on her task. She is holding a small glass vial in one hand and wielding her wand in the other, using an efficient twirling motion to direct a tendril of blood into the vial.

Near the mouth of the alley, where Percival is now standing, the wall is burnt black in a peculiar smoky pattern—this must be where Credence’s Obscurus tried to burst free. A few steps deeper is a wide russet stain, an arcing spray of droplets, and a flurry of footsteps—large men’s shoes and Queenie’s heels all overlapping and sliding over the cracked pavement.

Nausea roils in Percival’s stomach. This is Newt’s blood. There is so much of it and it’s everywhere. It should not be here, it should be safely contained within Newt’s veins, keeping him alive and well. How can he survive with so much of his blood spreading across the ground in a dirty alley?

Percival has to look away, he might vomit otherwise and that will not do. Franklin is standing now, looking at him with concern. She must have been speaking to him and become worried when he failed to respond.

Percival clears his throat and says roughly, “Just checking up on your progress.”

Franklin nods. “Abasi and Hass are following the trail the attacker left in blood and with magic when he fled. I stayed back to collect a blood sample and to clean up the scene.”

With a blood sample, Brangham’s division can use a Polyjuice Potion to take on the appearance of the attacker and hopefully be able to identify him. At the very least, it will allow them to get a picture of him so they may track him down later.

Percival nods. “Good.”

“Sir, are…” Franklin hesitates, she is always careful to not be overly obvious about her persistent feelings for Percival. She swallows and presses on anyway. “Are you alright, sir?”

Percival stares at her for a moment and then casts his eyes about the alleyway once again. It occurs to him that idleness is his only real option in this particular situation, unless he wants to help Franklin scrub Newts blood from the concrete or catch up to Abasi on what is likely a fruitless search. Neither of the latter choices are appealing and in fact the thought of cleaning away Newt’s blood makes him sick to his stomach. So his true choices here are to be idle at the office or be idle at the hospital and, well, it’s rather obvious which one he prefers.

He supposes he needed to go on this little walkabout to fully realize that sometimes simply waiting is the only thing to do.

He sighs and looks back on Franklin, still awaiting an answer from him with a worried expression.

He tells her bluntly, “Not particularly, no, but there’s nothing for it at the moment. Carry on.”

He gives her a curt nod and then turns on the spot and Apparates back to St. Agatha’s. He goes directly to the fifth floor and finds the Goldsteins and Credence still huddled in the private waiting room; Sadie has vanished, likely needed back at the office. Tina looks up when he enters and offers a wan smile.

“Still no news?” he asks and Tina shakes her head. Percival sighs and drops himself in the chair next to hers, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Tentatively, Tina’s hand come to his shoulder and when he doesn’t shake her off, she starts to rub soothing circles across the middle of his back.

An hour crawls by. Credence slips into an uneasy sleep against Queenie’s shoulder.

Thirty minutes pass. A Healer enters, levitating a tray with a large block of chocolate and breaks off a piece for everyone in the room. Credence’s is left on a little cloth napkin for when he wakes. The chocolate helps a bit, but Percival still feels as though his lungs are filled with cotton.

Another hour drags by and finally an exhausted Healer enters with a grim expression that does not bode well. Tina shifts to be in Percival’s sightline alongside the Healer to sign his words as he speaks them.

“We’ve settled Mr. Scamander into a bed,” the Healer reports. “He’s stable for now and we’ve induced a coma to ensure he rests and does not aggravate the injury. It’s very delicate and we’ve found that even the slightest movement will open it up and cause it to bleed.” The Healer pauses, glances at Queenie in the corner with the fitfully dozing Credence and then back to Percival. “The curse that struck him was designed to exsanguinate its target. We had a hell of a time countering it and even now we’re not entirely confident it has been completely removed. A Healer will be by regularly to check the injury and to administer a Blood Replenishing potion.”

Tina’s hands are trembling, but she keeps signing determinedly despite the renewed tears tracking down her cheeks. Percival’s own eyes are stinging fiercely, but he blinks them back. He needs his vision to be clear so he can read the Healer’s lips and Tina’s hands.

“Feel free to sit with him for as long as you like during visiting hours,” says the Healer, “we only ask that you do so one at a time and, please, do not touch him. As I said, his condition is delicate and we want to give him the best chance of recovery we possibly can.”

Percival nods, throat too dry and thick to speak. He rises unsteadily, a hand pressed to Daphne’s warm, buzzing body looped over his shoulders like a scarf. He steadies himself with his other hand on the back of his chair. Tina touches his arm to check in on him, he nods tightly, and then she bustles past him to get Queenie’s attention.

Credence nibbles on his chocolate at the Healer leads them to Newt’s private room. The young man is still vaguely out of it, eyes distant and movements sluggish. His hand has a white-knuckled grip on Queenie’s and he doesn’t seem likely to let her go any time soon.

But Percival does not have the capacity to worry about Credence right now. All he can think about is Newt.

Outside the door, the Healer stops. One at a time, he reminds them. Tina touches Percival’s arm again for his attention.

“I’m going to take Queenie and Credence home,” she says. “I should’ve done it ages ago, but I had to hear about Newt first.” Percival nods, he understands. “You should come over, too, sir. After… Once visiting hours are over. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Percival can picture Mathilda perfectly in his mind’s eye, nodding sagely and agreeing with Tina, nagging him to let his friends take care of him. He can also picture Newt, beautiful and hale, teasingly telling him that he can survive one night alone.

Evidently not. Pain lances through Percival’s chest.

He nods and says roughly, “I will. Tina. Thank you.”

Tina gives him a wobbly smile in return.

Before she turns to leave, Percival puts his hand on her shoulder. “If I could trouble you for a favor… Would you be so kind as to send an owl to my parents? They agreed to foster Credence and. And I know they’re worried about Newt.”

He feels silly for asking. It is not Tina’s responsibility, it is his, but he’s not sure can manage it right now… Trying to put to words what has happened to Newt while he was away, unable to protect his golden-hearted lover and how he now lies in a hospital with no promise of survival… That is a monstrous task and it would be Percival’s undoing. But asking Tina, Newt’s best friend, to do so in his stead feels cruel and cowardly.

He drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I’ll do it myself—”

Tina waves at him to shut up. “What are their names?”

“Florence and Gideon,” he answers automatically in his surprise.

Tina nods. “Okay. I can do that for you, Mr. Graves. It’s okay.”

Percival breathes out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, Tina.”

She takes his hand from her shoulder and squeezes it tightly between her own. “You come right over after visiting hours, you hear? Right over. We’ve got Newt’s case, so you’ve got no excuses.”

“Good. Okay, yes,” Percival promises and gives Tina’s hand a squeeze in return before they separate and go their separate ways. Percival turns back to the waiting Healer and is, at last, allowed into Newt’s room. The room is small and cozy and there are windows on every wall charmed to reflect the outside, which is hazy late afternoon. There is an attached lavatory and a little bedside table and a single comfortable chair.

Percival pulls his eyes away and back to the Healer before he can look at Newt. He isn’t ready.

“Was there a bowtruckle with him when he arrived?” he asks. There has been no mention of Pickett and he hadn’t even noticed until Tina mentioned having Newt’s case.

The Healer thinks for a moment. “Er, yes, I believe there was… Miss Goldstein became rather more hysterical when we tried to remove it, so we left it alone.” The Healer steps past Percival politely and the Director tracks him as he goes to the bedside table and pulls open a drawer. The man must’ve picked up on Percival’s apparent quirk, because he doesn’t resume speaking until he is facing Percival again. “Here it is, one of the younger Healers must’ve made it this little nest to keep it out of the way while we worked.”

Percival can see the tips of green leaves wavering over the lip of the drawer and that is all the confirmation he needs at the moment.

“Thank you,” he says and the Healer smiles kindly.

“There is only an hour and half left of visiting hours,” he informs Percival. “I’m sorry, but I have to insist you heed them. Someone will be around by then to check.”

“I understand.”

The Healer leaves then and Percival is alone in utter silence with the inert form of his once-vibrant love. Daphne nudges his cheek with her smooth beak, pushes insistently, and then flutters off his shoulders and onto the back of the chair. She gapes at him, screeching silently for him to come sit with her. How can Percival refuse?

In the bedside drawer, Newt’s clothes have been cleaned and folded and Pickett is nestled in the lapels of that infamous blue jacket. The little bowtruckle peers over the edge with beady eyes and quivering leaves and then reaches his tiny arms towards Percival. Percival holds his hand out the little thing and Pickett clambers on immediately and scurries up his arm to sit on Percival’s shoulder.

In the company of his and his love’s favorites beasts, Percival at last feels brave enough to look at Newt. Percival didn’t think his heart could sink any further, but it does and then it crumbles for good measure. Newt is ghostly pale to the point that even his lips are a pale, chalky pink. The bluish lines of veins stand out stark around his eyes and across his lids. He lies so still that Percival has to sit on his hands to keep from checking his pulse, resigned instead to watching intently until he can see the shallow rise and fall of Newt’s breathing.

The Healers have left Newt shirtless to negate the risk of agitating the white bandages bound around his torso. Newt’s pale shoulders, collarbones, and arms are on display and so is every silvery scar that crosshatch and curl across his skin. The bandages themselves glimmer faintly and when Percival holds his hand over them to feel the magic, it is like holding his fingers over a freshly poured soda. The healing magic spits and tingles like carbonation. Percival withdraws his hand and laces his fingers tightly in his lap. The desire to hold Newt’s hand in strong, but stronger still is the desire to see Newt healed.

Percival sits and watches Newt’s shallow breathing, hardly daring to breathe himself, until a Healer comes through and apologetically tells him that visiting hours are about to end. Percival silently gathers up his occamy and Newt’s bowtruckle and takes one last lingering look at Newt’s drawn face before tearing himself away.

He keeps his word and goes directly to the Goldsteins’ apartment. Credence is sleeping on the couch under a warm quilt and Darwin, who is several feet long and draped in thick heavy coils over the young man. Unlike Newt’s near-lifeless slumber, Credence’s face is slack in a way that makes him appear even younger than he is, relaxed and wholly innocent.

Queenie touches Percival’s elbow and explains, signing somewhat clumsily, “We’ve been teaching Darwin to act as blanket when Credence is anxious or upset. The weight helps, he says it makes him feel secure.”

“Good,” he murmurs. He looks carefully at Queenie. Her eyes are puffy—either from crying or exhaustion, it’s impossible to say—and her hair falls in limp, loose waves. This is Queenie without her usual spark and wiped clean of makeup. Percival knows Queenie has been working hard on building her case for revising Rappaport’s Law and that taking in Credence has done nothing to diminish or redirect her fire. Queenie pours herself wholeheartedly into every task and challenge she takes on and the toll this has taken is evident in her weariness.

“How long has been since you had a decent night’s sleep?” he asks, gently touching his fingertips to the sides of her jaw.

“Only a day or so,” Queenie answers vaguely. Percival sighs and doesn’t call her out on the fib. Instead, he just pulls her in for a hug and feels Queenie melt gratefully against him. When they separate, Queenie is misty eyed and smiling thinly, but genuinely.

“Have you eaten?” Percival asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “We saved you a plate.”

Percival’s lips pull into a lopsided smile, touched and ever endeared by Queenie’s sweetness and thoughtfulness. “Thank you, dear. Get some sleep, now. Whatever you think you still have to do can wait until morning.”

She looks like she might argue, biting her lower lip and creasing her brow. Tentatively, she starts to say, “Newt…”

Percival shakes his head. He can’t. “In the morning. Please.”

Thankfully, Queenie relents and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. Then she murmurs _goodnight_ and shuffles from the room. Percival takes a moment to collect himself, cupping a hand over Daphne and feeling her feathers and her little scaly feet as she rubs against him. Daphne grounds him, gives him something to focus on and pulls him back from his whirling mind before he comes too close to drowning. Re-centered, Percival follows the taste of Tina’s magic in the air—like warm vanilla and fresh laundry, something distinctly homey and strong—to the kitchen, where he finds her sitting at the table with a mug of coffee cradled between her hands.

She glances up when he enters and lifts her hands to sign, _You’re plate is on the counter. There’s more coffee in the pot._

Percival lifts his right hand, flat, to hold his fingers near his lips and then moves his hand forward and slightly down towards Tina. _Thank you_. The plate on the counter contains a simple lasagna; Percival summons a fork and waves off the warming spell before sitting across from Tina. She sips her coffee and Percival eats and nothing is said or signed between them.

It has been a long time since the silence of Percival’s world felt so oppressive or so isolating. He eats without tasting the food, going through all the motions methodically, robotically—separate a bite, bring to mouth, chew, swallow, repeat. When the plate is empty, he sends to the sink to wash itself and then, just for something to have, directs the coffee pot to pour him a cup.

The coffee is dark and bitter and the scorching heat of it wakes him a bit. He drinks it slowly and savors the taste on his tongue and the heat that seeps through his veins.

Tina stretches her hand across the table and taps to attract his attention.

She signs, _I fire-called your parents. We talked for a long time. Introduced them to_ —the sign that follows is one Percival does not recognize, though he thinks he has seen it before. Ever observant, Tina fingerspells, _C-R-E-D-E-N-C-E_ and then repeats the unknown sign. Percival nods, remembering now that Tina used it several times earlier today, but he clearly did not notice and read the young man’s name on her lips rather than her hands. Tina continues, _He seems to like them and he is willing to meet them_.

Percival touches the fingers of his right hand to his lips and then brings them down to the upward palm of his left hand. _Good_. Then he touches his righthand fingers to his lips again and lowers the hand towards Tina.

Tina connects her index finger and thumb and holds the rest of her fingers up. _Okay_?

Percival scoffs. _What do you think_?

Tina shrugs.

Percival finishes his coffee and asks after Newt’s case. Tina gets up and retrieves it from her and Queenie’s bedroom. Percival leaves the case tucked against the wall in the living room and then descents into the shack. Newt’s animals are clamoring no more than usual, so they’ve clearly already been fed their dinners. Percival walks among them, eyes hungrily taking in the vast variety of feathers and fur, skin and scales, claws and teeth. He soaks in the earthy taste of their raw magic, the bright sparks on his skin and the warmth of their collective presence. An ache rises in his chest like a physical pain, but he knows it is entirely emotional.

He watches the bowtruckles scurry and chitter at each other and doesn’t even make a token attempt at urging Pickett to join them. The niffler, surprisingly, is fast asleep in his hoard, buried under shiny coins and stolen treasures. Only his little snout and one of his tiny paws is visible; the sight is devastatingly cute and Percival wishes Newt were here to see it.

The mooncalves are dancing, but they scatter and hide in their burrows when they notice Percival approaching. A shimmer at the edge of his vision alerts him that he has picked up a follower in Dougal. Addie the nundu stretches her nose out to him as he passes and Percival pauses obligingly to scratch her under the chin.

Then he retreats to the shack, removes his shoes and coat, and hunkers down onto the cot. The cot’s mattress is squishy and soft and forms a perfect cocoon around his body. Daphne coils under his chin and lays her neck across his, letting him feel her gentle breaths against his ear. Pickett snuggles under Daphne’s wing and pats Percival’s cheek with an affectionate hand. A blanket pulls itself over Percival’s form and once it settles, Dougal slides into view and curls up against Percival’s chest.

It does not take long for Percival to fall asleep.

 

\- - -

 

Percival goes to his apartment after breakfast to shower and change his clothes and then heads into work. It is Sunday, but with yesterday’s excitement he knows Abasi will be in. Sure enough, Abasi is hunched over his desk when Percival arrives, intently scribbling his way through several forms. Percival steps closer and peers at the form on the top of the pile.

“Arrest warrant,” he reads and Abasi jumps, then spins around with a hand going to his wand before he sees who it is. “Good news, I hope.”

Abasi sets down his pen and leans back in his chair. He sighs and smiles grimly. “We identified Mr. Scamander’s attacker through use of Polyjuice Potion as Maurice Milton, unfortunate name for a very unfortunate looking man. Hass proved himself to be a very capable investigator and uncovered nearly a dozen prior offenses on his record. I’d intended to bring you the warrants first thing tomorrow for signing off, but since you’re here now…”

Percival scrounges up a smirk and holds his hand out for Abasi’s pen. Abasi hands it over and scoots back in his chair to give Percival space to approach the desk. Percival signs the arrest warrant and then flips through the other documents on Abasi’s desk. There’s a warrant to search Milton’s premises, which he signs, and then several pages of the usual scut that accompanies every legal action. Everything is in order, so Percival taps the papers together and lays them flat on the desk.

“Thank you, sir,” says Abasi. “Shall we follow up right away?”

Percival considers his answer. On the one hand there is a certain appeal to being the one to book the ass who made an attempt on Newt’s life, even if Credence was the actual intended target. But on the other, Percival isn’t sure he trusts himself in the presence of someone who _made an attempt_ on Newt’s life. It’s probably for the best that Percival not accompany Abasi today, his time is better spent siting with Newt at St. Agatha’s.

“Call Strenburg,” he suggests. “I am sure she’ll forgive the interruption on her day off if it means making this arrest.”

“Yes, sir,” says Abasi, but he is looking at Percival with a curious tilt to his head, like he is noticing something he hadn’t before. Percival could damn his Aurors for being so perceptive, so good at their jobs, but he wouldn’t have them any other way. “Are you alright, sir?”

Percival suppresses a sigh. “That remains to be seen.”

“Sir…?”

Percival waves him off. “Best of luck,” he says as he turns away. “Update me tomorrow, first thing.”

He assumes Abasi calls some form of confirmation after him, but does not look to see. He doesn’t know what he expected to accomplish by coming into work today, perhaps he’d hoped to see the man who caused him such agony, perhaps he’d hoped for a sense of closure. Knowing as he does now that he has no desire to face Milton, Percival shudders to think what may have occurred had Milton been present. Percival has been unmoored, the rope to his anchor cut, and though he is loath to admit it, that frightens him.

He always resisted the very notion of dependency, refused his cane when he should not have and second-guessed his relationship with Newt when he felt himself growing attached. He and Mathilda have discussed this aversion at great length and Percival thought he had overcome it, but now he feels it all rushing back. Newt is an immense weakness in his armor, one he convinced himself to stop seeing because Newt is such a talented wizard with an unexpected amount of power. But Percival’s weakness is Newt’s weakness, which is apparently his willingness to self-sacrifice.

He hasn’t gone a full day without Newt and already Percival is falling apart. It is, quite frankly, embarrassing. He stews about this and stews and stews until he finds his feet have taken him to St. Agatha’s. Then he stews with furthered intensity as he strides through the hospital corridors and takes the stairs just to feel the burning ache in his bad knee.

“Perhaps I am being too hard on myself,” he mutters to Newt, who is still sallow and untouchable and barely alive. “I’ve not allowed myself to process what has happened. Darling, I haven’t even cried, not really. Tina and Queenie and Mathilda and _you_ have all at some point assured me that it’s okay to cry. Which I know, logically, but I’m not exactly in a logical mindset at the moment, am I.”

Percival reviews the words he has just spoken, drops his face into his palms, and then scrubs his hands through his hair with a groan. “Merlin and Mor _gana_ , I have been to _so much_ therapy.”

He stays as he is for a moment to bask in self-pity and then tells himself to get over it. He sits up and then jolts with surprise when he finds a Healer standing at the other side of Newt’s bed. He thinks he makes a noise, but he can’t be sure what it was, just that it is likely humiliating. The Healer, bless her, just smiles at him.

“Sorry, sir, I assumed you heard me come in,” she says.

Percival shakes his head. “No apology necessary,” he assures her. “I was quite, ah, distracted.”

“That’s understandable,” she replies sympathetically. Percival watches as the Healer casts a few diagnostic charms, but doesn’t try to read the results; he doesn’t know any medical jargon and even if he did, the words that appear are backwards to his eyes.

“Sir?” says the Healer and it is fortunate that Percival is already looking in her direction to catch her verbal attempt at gaining his attention. “I’m about to change his bandages, I’m afraid I have to ask you to step outside while I do so.”

“Yes, of course.” He complies right away, closing the door behind him and leaning back against the wall a few steps to the side. It takes no more than fifteen minutes for the Healer to complete her duties and when she exits the room, she pauses to speak to Percival.

“You should keep talking to him,” she says. “A lot of coma patients after waking say they could hear their loved ones speaking them and that it helped.” She pauses and Percival waits because he can see that she has more to say. “I don’t want to give you false hope, but… His heartbeat is a bit steadier than it was when I last checked. It’s not a huge change, but it is something.”

A slow, small smile catches Percival’s lips. “Thank you.”

The Healer smiles back and then strides away to continue her work. Percival slips back into Newt’s room and eases himself into the chair, mindful of his throbbing knee. Newt appears undisturbed, unchanged, as if the Healer hadn’t even been through, but Percival can feel the refreshed tingling of carbonated healing magic on the bandages. He tries not to imagine what the wound underneath must look like, but he has seen so many gruesome injuries firsthand that the mental picture comes unbidden. It would be long and jagged, swollen along the incision and shadowed with bruises or perhaps just a hot, irritated red. It will definitely leave a scar, will become a monstrous addition to Newt’s existing collection. Monstrous not because of its immense size, because it cannot be much longer than the claw marks down Newt’s back from an ill encounter with griffon. It will be monstrous because it was inflicted by man, inflicted with cruel intentions, and hasn’t Newt called humans the most vicious creatures on the planet? Percival, with his years of experience in law enforcement, is inclined to agree with that statement.

“You should have come with me to my parents’, darling,” he murmurs, then shakes his head. “No, perhaps not. If you hadn’t been there, Credence would be… He and Queenie would likely be dead now. And as much it breaks my heart to say this, I. I am thankful that you were there to protect them. I wish their safety had not come at such a cost, but thank you, my darling, for keeping them safe.”

Percival reaches out to take Newt’s hand and remembers himself just in time. He pulls Daphne into his lap and keeps his hands busy with stroking her feathers. Daphne, the gorgeous thing, helps by wrapping her toes around his wrists and holding tight.

“You are a truly exceptional wizard, Newt Scamander,” Percival says. His throat feels scratchy, affected somehow by something. He tries to clear it, but it is still irritated when he speaks next. “I’ll have you know that I fully intent to spend the rest of my life with you by my side. Whether that means here in this room or out there, following all the mischief and chaos you bring in your wake. Unintentionally, I know, but it is undeniable. You’re trouble, Mr. Scamander, but you’re also _mine_. So. Darling, please…”

Percival can fight it no more. He bows his head over his occamy and he begins to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The poem Percival recites is called “Common Dust” by Georgia Douglas Johnson, a poet and one of the earliest African-American playwrights. She was also a prominent activist and a key voice in the Harlem Renaissance. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> I figure I owe you all an explanation... Um, it's really just an emotional dumpcake of depression, writer's block, and then getting sucked back into the Marvel fandom after being royally fucked by Infinity War and then having my soul saved by Deadpool 2... And a whole boatload of having to be a Real Adult for a while. Ugh.
> 
> But I'm already working away at the next and probably final installment! Ideally, this time it won't take me five months to post, but August is going to be a busy month for me and I'm not counting on having the next part done before August... Regardless, it shouldn't take as long as it has in the past. I don't want to leave you with this doozy of a cliffhanger for too long.
> 
> And, thank you all so much for reading and commenting and being so kind and supportive even when I make you wait AGES for updates. You guys are all wonderful. Thank you so much. <3


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